Ellery James Roberts

photo booth portraits 2019 + 2023

your art is the ashes left by the fires of becoming

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here, our moment eternal

on sunday i woke with this non sense phrase 

vibrating in my shining skull 

a proposition to come home

to our eternal moment now 

of being a human being

not a human doing 

I know the machines algorithm adores consistent engagement

but the faire folk of the imaginal do not care for linear time

and i have come to serve the good people first

indeed my distant friend i wanted to write you sooner 

i wanted to write you with elated gold of new born soul

announce myself as radiant and transformed 

ready to take up and take on the gauntlet of our times

but i know i am in process and i must go slow with careful and mindful awareness

 less that ariean bull head becomes re-traumatised by his own hurried stampede

here our moment enteral

hear our moment enteral

on that dream time crescendo 

I will end this with a prayer

puff on the chanupa 

sound the shofar

that all of life may flow from an autotelic state of enlightened anarchy

putting aside all fear of failure and all desire to succeed

may we be liberated from trying 

and allow all to be as it must be

and in this surrendered state

may we make love

with each present moment 

with no thought of how our story may end

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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& so it is

i danced myself a riddle to get here

the battle hardened spear lost it's point seeking peace

i began this yarn with the desire to speak to you 

of a twilight blue

the no self that blooms 

as the dark night wakes to the possibility of a new day 

I hear old bhaktananda singing it anthemic

you are nothing, nothing at all

but the pure awareness of soul

it is said there is tragic sadness in the blues

and in the release of embodiment

i to shudder with grief 

a depth of grief I did not know I carried

but truly i see the divine comedy of life

the betwixt and between sorrow and joy

the tension of duality that gives life its richness

when experienced holy with no parts of oneself left in exile

the two poles held in majestic tension of circumstance 

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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& finally

i cease

when all my games have played out fruitlessly

my strategies abandoned

i find myself in the liminal with no name

no identity to cling to, no occupation, 

no throne to claim

i quieten into stillness and begin to listen

my battle hardened spear of attention

seeking the wise salmon in the clear pool

and i sit and i sit 

and i sit staring at the blank page with saintly acceptance

knowing it to be the mirror of my precocious beginners mind

and then 7 aeons and 77 minuets later

with startling audacity a foreign tongue starts to speak

she says:

we have all been going through something.

you want to tell your truth

and act like its real

but you can not find words adequate 

to the depth of feeling you have awoken

your stories are only ever the budding leaves

catching your attention with their small and tragic beauty

but the truth remains unspoken 

buried in deep rooted emotions 

unspeakable veins of lighting that reach down into the undergrowth

into the fertile darkness where no left brain language

can label- can analyse

you just have to feel

and honour and acknowledge your courage

de-armouring the numbness of a nervous system

deep fried by the sensory overload 

of this ceaseless spectacle we live within

this is the great work

and this is your process 

the work that reconnects 

your staff was cut from holly branch

to earth the lightning back into the soil

a bridge between worlds

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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i first heard the call to adventure

of life's great longings 

in the twilight months of my 21st year

unwittingly i descended 

into a shadowy underworld and

despite numinous glimpses 

from those ecstatic mountain ridges

 I have not yet truly been able to get out

i wrote you previously of my fledgling aspiration towards literary hubris

and that damn letter took me 2 weeks of hard minded labour: 

graft that now feels a frivolous investment of my dainty life force

for it had not the might to break open the reservoir of spirits rebellious 

to come streaming back down into this valley of dry desolate despair

and so, my friend

if we are friends truly

in this belles-letter i have decided to butcher idol worship

break these well written tablets upon my feet of clay

and allow these words to be my re-wilding of language

through the practice of pikey poetry sung with operatic tongue

for i know nothing wilder than the vulnerable newness 

of consciousness awoken

a softly babbling brook 

that streams close to the source

to walk lightly on the earth 

and speak freely from my heart cave soul 

is my only aspiration

not to change the world but belong more wholly to it

and so this here is my practice of holding vigil

as a compassionate witness to my own inner process

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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there are many sensible people

trying to make sense of these senseless times

but i am not one !

indeed i am two; a mountain mad wanderer

that occasionally unearths a pulsating poetic truth

and a confounded sapling trying to weather the storm

a mustard seed is truly very very tiny & yet may grow abundant in barren soil, and that mountain is actually a curving hillock separate and lonely from the rolling range

it is not with out melancholy

that i watch the multitudes from my distant nest

strange days became stranger still

and i realise once again

i have become a stranger to myself

alas i am that i am

or am i someone else entirely?

"you must break the limits of your false self to discover your true identity: who you are is not constructed through comparisons." - the Anarchist

& in such posturing, still i am trying to be something other

than the tender self i know

so intimately

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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What a Relief to be No One

What a Joy to be Nothing at all... my friend will you allow me to share my rawness

redacted only when the clang of expression rings too wayward to speak

for try as i might, i seem to have lost the constitution

for civilised and coherent communication

my lily white skin too paper thin for the fickle editors erasure

a thousand fragmented thoughts left hanging in abrupt incompleteness

an idiosyncratic march to my own big beat drum

I promise there is a rhythm

if you listen closely enough you may be able to dance along

for you my friend, as ever are offered your sacred choice

will you invest wisely from your store house of time and attention?

what will you spend, how much will you pay?

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Scans from the Black Book 2016-2020

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In a world dominated by urban sprawl and incessant technological noise, a community known as "the People" thrived in peaceful harmony, standing as a testament to another way of life. Situated at the edge of a vast forest, far removed from the mega-cities' hustle, the People's haven was a sanctuary of balance and sustainable existence.

Each dawn, the members of the community, cloaked in their distinctive white linen robes, would gather at the center of their village. They would share a simple breakfast, mostly fruits and occasionally fish from the nearby stream. Their diet, primarily pescatarian, was a conscious choice to maintain harmony with the land while ensuring their nutritional needs were met.

The architecture of their dwellings was both innovative and ancient, combining biodynamic perma-culture techniques with the wisdom of ages past. No single plot was ever over-cultivated. Instead, the land was allowed to rejuvenate, mirroring the natural ebb and flow of the forest around them.

By day, they turned their focus to the perennial wisdom, ancient teachings that spanned cultures and eras. Elders, revered for their deep knowledge and understanding, taught younger generations about the interconnectedness of all things, the cycles of nature, and the importance of balance.

But it was the night that brought the community even closer together. As the sun's last rays kissed the horizon, a massive communal fire would roar to life in the village center. Members of "the People" would gather around, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames.

Each night, a different member was chosen as the storyteller. They would weave tales of ancient myths, legendary heroes, and profound truths. These stories served not just as entertainment but as parables, teaching lessons, reinforcing community values, and connecting the present with the past. They believed that in stories lay the heartbeat of humanity, a way to navigate the complex web of existence.

The outside world, with its skyscrapers and neon lights, was aware of the People. Some dismissed them as outcasts or relics of a bygone era. Others, however, were intrigued. Every year, a few individuals, tired of the synthetic existence of the mega-cities, would make the pilgrimage to the forest's edge, seeking to join the People and learn their ways.

And so, the community continued to thrive, a beacon of hope and a living testament to the idea that with respect, understanding, and a deep connection to the land and its stories, humanity could carve a different path into the future.

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Regrettably in the excitement of this lucid dream transmission I woke myself up. I was left in a somewhat ecstatic paralysis, lay on my back vibrating with the revelation.

I now know. The veil has been lifted. The Mystery revealed. It all made sense.

The "realness" of the lucidity and the content of the information presented felt in that experiential moment a gospel of Truth. Instantly wanted to go back into the dream- to begin my training in this mystical academy of conscious creation... yet I knew I was now too awake for sleep and I had to write it all down incase the clarity dulled into forgotten ember- which inevitably it did- as I sat down to make these notes I wrote with a sense of fading fog consuming my lucidity. There was more to the dream, I just no longer recall what

After getting down the general narrative of the dream shared above I made note of 3 clear thought that I have been chewing on since:

1. True Art is the skilful craft and communication from the Collective Unconscious Deep Mind. Great works of art resonate/ connect on a deep level with an Audience for they already know and have experienced it's truth within the depths of their own psyches.

2. Song are Spells. A sequence of language bound by emotion- heightened by melodic framing. A Song can be crafted to effectively realise intent- bypassing the intellect and communicating with the symbolic felt experience of the subconscious.

3. To Maintain Singular Focus is the primary skill of the imaginal world. You must be able to hold Clear Intent & Singular Focus for there is infinite potential, never ending possibilities, and you may easily become lost/ distracted.

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Beneath the Concrete, The Eternal Flame: Collage: 2019

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I then wake up into a different dream where I am completely lucid. I knew instantly I was in dreaming yet felt very awake, very present. A sensation of fresh alertness and awareness of my physicality as the world around me held a sensation comparable and perhaps beyond normative waking life.

Before me were two beautiful women, dressed in deep scarlet robes. They both grin at me, congratulating me on finally "waking up" with a playful irony, as if I had finally managed to do something I had been attempting for a long time. They then led me around what I can only describe as an academy of some kind, where many other scarlet robed students were stood before great "mirrors" that mercurially shifted in reflection.

This is where the dream becomes particularly compelling, for I had discovered and began obsessively playing around with an AI image generating app "Dream by wombo.art" during the day prior to the dream. The app enables you to upload an image and then enter words or phrases that the AI fuses from a graphic database into an “original image”. As the new work generates there is an animation of the image morphing as it processes. I had spent the afternoon very intrigued by the creative possibilities of the app, and the sheer strangeness of the images it produced. The animation gave me a sense of how the AI "thought" in random associative patterns dictated by the prompt.

I make note of this because these great mercurial mirrors that the students stood before were doing exactly the same thing as the AI app- they continually morphed in and out of imagery and form. The women explained that these mirrors were a training exercise- to learn how to maintain singular imaginative focus. The mirrors would reflect every thought the mind held, an undisciplined, busy mind reflected a chaos of imagery. Some of the students held singular clear images, that would occasionally collapse into chaos, it was like watching a mental high wire balancing act.

Their explanation continued that all we experience (in life? in a dream?) is a reflection of our subconscious thoughts & beliefs. The imagination is an infinite manifesting mirror of our own inner narratives. The stories we tell, and that are told to us are a two way deep code exchange that constructs our subjective reality. It is possible to "rehearse" and "imprint" a new script on the subconscious through the conscious act of (lucid) dreaming, and thus alter ones lived experience of waking life. This was all presented to me quite casually as a practice I was invited to take up, in-fact encouraged to, it was as if these two women had grown impatient with me "creating" in ignorance of how creation really works.

In their intimidatingly immanent way, the two Dream guides suggested that we are all continuously co-creating reality through our subconscious thoughts, patterns and visualised imagination. The question was then left as do I act with conscious creative intent or continue to sleepwalk unconsciously, a victim of my automatic existence.

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collage made using dream.app

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& I emerge from the Dream with the shining skull sense that I now know.

The veil has been lifted

the mystery revealed-

but as a dream communicates holographically

simultaneous multitudes

numinous glimpses that appear impossible to encapsulate in this limited linear language, already I feel the clarity fray...

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The Dream begins with a test or sorts.

I am in an open field where a single tower stands alone. Members of my family are sat amongst a small audience and I am stood before them as if on a stage to perform in front of a panel of judges.

I leap up to an impossible height, catching the towers roof ledge with my hands. Then dangling down, my body begins to stretch in length until my feet reach the floor and I have become a giant, as tall as the tower. The audience applauds at my demonstration of capability and then instantaneously I find myself sat in a ceremony, knowing with a warm feeling of pride that I am about to receive an award to commemorate my achievement.

In this moment my sleeping body is taken by a physical plummeting sensation, a heavy feeling of paralysis sets in as I become aware of being asleep at the vague edges of my dreaming consciousness. Then, as if watching a film projected on to a screen, a series of images plays before my eyes edited as a cinematic montage.

With subsequent research I now understand this to be typical of the "hypnogogic" state of sleep. It is hard to describe convincingly, for I was simultaneously the observer sat in the ceremony, and an omniscient presence, immersed in each image at a cellular level.

The sequence begins with a heroic image of Napoleon as depicted on a postcard given to me by mother for my 27th birthday. I knew specifically by his pose it was Napoleon- yet his likeness was carved as a majestic white marble sculpture rather than the painting I knew.

My perspective zooms into his hand which holds aloft a great spear, for the sculpture of Napoleon was somehow fused with an Icon of St. George that my friend Louis gave me upon his return from Armenia.

A snake then emerges from the figures hand that coils down the lance, moving with a fluidity as if a pouring blood flow from the Stigmata.

I am now positioned at the bottom of the statue, as the serpentine liquid drips from the heart shaped spear head onto my outstretched tongue.

And then everything shifts.

An eruption of imagery vibrates my sleeping consciousness in a strobing seizure of psychedelic, perhaps entheogenic, visions- the last image I recall was a birds eye view of a mushroom cloud explosion that expands infinitely outwards forming my own blue Iris staring back at me.

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Friends,

This letter is composed from notes made at 3.am after waking from a particularly enigmatic, spontaneously lucid dream.

I’d like to preference the following by stating that, though I have always been fascinated by the phenomena of Dreaming, and have had several highly symbolic and influential dream experiences, prior to the occurrence described bellow I had never dwelt upon the topic Lucidity and the profound implications of the Imaginal Realm.

This lucid dream experience was truly spontaneous and has left me immensely curious, in conscious pursuit of that prescient golden thread that spirals down into the heart of the mystery.

I share this reflection with the desire to open conversation with a community of others whom are similarly intrigued to explore these betwixt and between realms of the subconscious mind and their consequence on waking life.

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so to bring this cascading stream of consciousness to some conclusion, I will offer a few parting remarks. WU should always remain unannounced. May this book become a magickal act of healing and redemption, a work of Art in itself. I am ever grateful for these recordings or I would have forgotten the power our young hearts were capable of expressing. I listen to these half baked WU2 demos now and see beauty waiting to be finished- suddenly I want to sing on them; to see what they may become. I feel the potency is still there, yet to be captured. I know we spoke on playing together again and there was not any real enthusiasm- it is true, "We could not recreate what we once had" - But what intrigues me is not nostalgia but how we would play these songs now, with all we have learnt, with all we have become. I know in many ways I sacrificed that potential a decade ago, but the path I have trodden has brought me back to the start.

 And so I put this letter out openly into the world as an act of courageous, perhaps foolish, transparency- an attempt at heart opening communication. If it reads as the ramblings of some self-righteous narcissist prone to heretical pretension then I have evidently missed the mark! Forgive me, I am still learning! I claim no mastery, only a commitment to practise & devotional trust in my own experience of Self. Perhaps fittingly I will end this with the timeless words of some anonymous sage;

I affirm this with the entirety of my being

Peace, Peace, Peace to all beings, everywhere

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